


Let This Cup Pass

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament)
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, Religion, Torment, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let This Cup Pass

  _O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt._

 

            Betrayed. Denied. Abandoned.

            The plea he has made to his father has fallen on deaf ears, apparently. His cheek burns where Judas kissed him. His shoulders where Judas held him as he kissed him feel bruised. The betrayal hurts the worst though.

            He is entirely alone.

            Flexing his wrists, he pulls futilely at the bindings holding him in place. There's no give in the ropes, no chance of pulling free. There is even less hope of getting released by his jailors.

            They stand around him silently. Beyond the walls of the courtyard he hears the roar of the crowd, calling for his death. He closes his eyes and waits. The footsteps on the stone sound behind him. He resists the urge to look over his shoulder.

            A touch of leather, brushes across his shoulders and he jumps. Then there's a voice, low at his ear. “If you don't remain still, you will be held down by the guards.”

            It's a familiar voice. He's heard it all his life, throughout his father's teachings.  Yet, the man speaking is a stranger as he unfurls the whip held in his hands.

            He closes his eyes and waits.

            The first blow strikes him across the middle of his back. The pain doesn't comes at first, no, the delay of it is what makes him arch his back, and then the burn settles, and he wants to scream just as the second blow strikes, higher on his shoulders. The third falls squarely across his buttocks, the agony of it stirring something deep within him.

            The man the Spirit has chosen for this task is very good. He times each blow with the finesse of a harpist, his fingers skilled and strong, wield the whip expertly. He knows each spot to make him scream, as he lays his back open.

            Each time the lash tears through broken skin, he wants to weep. Pain such as he has never known in all his years on earth ravage at his body. Yet he has never felt more alive. His legs strain to stand, to bear the punishment His father has laid upon his shoulders. It shouldn't be this hard to accept, and yet, he aches with the weight of it.

            His world is reduced to a serious of sounds. The wet slap of the lash as it lands upon his bloody back. The broken catch of his own breath. The rise and fall of the cry beyond the crowd waiting impatiently.

            When his legs give at last, the blood is coursing down his legs. His back is raw, the crisscrosses of the lash have broken him. His body slumps gratefully to the ground. The ropes pull at his wrists, biting into the bruised flesh as he hangs from them. He doesn't notice. His body is nothing but mortal flesh.

            _Father. Father._ He doesn't know why he calls Him. He knows His father will not answer him.        

            The man stands behind him, then, kneels, brushing the sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. The touch is gentle as always. He's smiling at him; it is the smile of his father's right hand. He leans into it, needing it more than he should.

            “There, there, why do you call for your father?” his voice is gentle, yet the reprimand is there.

            He should not have called out. “It is, too much.” His voice is ragged, he can't speak more.

            “It is not yet enough,” The words are soft. The man's eyes are softer, yet unyielding. His hand as it slides down his back, easing through the blood is a torturous caress. It makes him shudder.

            But not as much as when the same blood slicked hand moves beneath his tunic and closes over his manhood.

            “Please.”

            The hand strokes him, the same hand that wielded the whip, the blood fresh as it eases his shaft's passage through the man's hands. Torment shouldn't feel this good. The pain of his back has receded as the pleasure builds between  his helpless legs.

            “I do not want this,” He manages.

            The hand upon him stills, then strokes harder, forcing a moan from his bitten lips. “You will take what your father has seen fit to give you.”

            He closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, each stroke a new tribulation, until the anguished moans are finally torn from his tongue as the seed spills, hot and steady over the man's fingers.

            The pain returns in a rush as the pleasure fades. He is still bound, still facing death at the hands of the people he came to earth for. Yet he doesn't cry out. Not now.

            “Why?” He asks, for this is the answer he both yearns to know, and yet doesn't want to accept. Why has his father sent the Spirit to do this to him?

            “I am but your father's hand,” the kiss upon his hair is gentle. “You will see me again.”

            He closes his eyes and weeps at last.

           


End file.
